Cold Comfort
by Symbiotic Toxin
Summary: He's fought and suffered enough in this hellhole, now he wishes only to keep her safe. Taking place just after Arkham City. Spoilers.


He looked up into the clouded sky. Small flurries of snow began to descend upon Gotham one by one. They started out slow, but would eventually these tiny droplets of frozen water would blanket the entire city. He reached out his hand, hoping to catch some of it in his hand, to feel the cold. It was only afterwards that he realized the futility of this endeavor.

He couldn't experience the cold felt against his skin. Not now, not ever. It wasn't just the suit that, essentially, was keeping him alive, but the fact that he knew what it felt like. He had known for many years now. Anger rose up through his throat, about to escape in a yell of long-suppressed anguish, but was cooled down like always.

An alert sounded off in his helmet. A beam of light within projected red-lettered data streams onto the glass visor. It flew by quickly, only being made out by the system operating in sync within his goggles. His face became stern. The time had come.

He turned and headed back into his lair, his heavily-armored footsteps thudding and the circuitry weering each time. The place he currently called home was the former housing of Gothams' 'finest', now a deserted old wreck after they had transferred to their new location. Once inside, he held up the mini-holographic computer built into his vanguard, pressed a button, and walked away as the buildings security activated. No one was getting in, at least not this time.

He headed towards his workstation, a desk by the crime lab. The place was decorated with the frozen poses of thugs and murders alike, either coming to take the place for themselves or whichever Asylum inmate they worked for. There was beauty, of course, mixed with in with the riffraff. Statues of her eloquent poses were erected in any place he felt needed her touch, her beauty. He reached the desk in what seemed like an hour. Time was slipping by so slowly for him now, not that he minded.

He wanted time to drag out. He thought of all the things he could do with such allotted time as he typed a into the MHC. The safety locks on his armor were shut off; meaning the hovering system that kept its weight relatively off his shoulders was slowly humming to a halt. The weight had not bothered him so much anymore, not like in the early days after the accident. Back then he could barely move if somehow the circuitry of the suit became compromised.

The humming finally came to a stop, dropping the full weight of advanced cryogenics and military-grade armor and gadgetry onto him. A muffled groan was all that was uttered from his lips. Just because he was used to the weight did not mean it wasn't a literal heavy burden on his shoulders. Still, he could move a lot easier in this suit without power than other suits before it, and he proceeded to remove that which kept him going. First came the gloves and gauntlets, the removal of each revealing nimble blue fingers.

The right set of these nimble fingers began work on the rest of the bracers, a small lock on the underside of the arm that could only be undone if done properly. Nimble fingers worked around the lock, feeling for a spot that would remove its hold and drop the bracer from his body. He found it, tugged it lightly, and felt the air hit his arm as he took the bracer and laid it on the desk. His eyes met the newly exposed forearm removing the other bracer. No words could explain how the air felt on his kin.

Cold air was something he was accustomed to, but always did it come from a suit designed to be below freezing temperatures, no air circulating around him that wasn't manufactured or filtered. He placed the now detached bracer next to its twin on the table, starting work on the pauldrons next. Unhooking it from the front was simple enough, but the back set of locks required effort. His nimble fingers worked to grab a hold, tugging hard to make sure it was undone and that he simply did not just lose and grip. With that, he gripped and lifted the pauldrons off and put them on the desk.

He shifted and rolled his shoulders to and fro, allowing himself to almost enjoy the new freedom and mobility they had. The upper arms, still armored, came off without the need unlock them, he merely slid them down his arms, revealing what looked like the sleeves of a shirt under them. Not just a shirt, however, but one half of a nano-fiber outfit he had worked on to protect him and give him mobility. It was a last line of defense should his suit be compromised, though it couldn't retain his needed body temperature. He hadn't had to use it, thankfully.

His fingers touched the ridged sides of his torso, feeling for the locking mechanism. He came across a small hole, a dent really. Memories of recent altercations raced through his mind. It was most likely a bullet from a would-be home invader, having gotten lucky just briefly before meeting his cold end. He sighed as he found the locking mechanism.

With a hard turn and a pull, a gasp of mist and steam shot out from around his helmet. Cautiously he lifted his hands up to remove the helmet. No matter how safe he was here, caution was always a must. His new lifestyle required caution, lest another invader comes along and gets even luckier with a stray bullet. There was too much at stake, too much work that would be left unfinished if anything should happen to him.

The upper half of his bod was now free, allowing him flexibility he seldom enjoyed. Quickly he bent over, undoing the locking mechanisms on his leggings and boots. As he worked he examined his own arms, toned and fit. Though lighter than a few of his other suits, it still carried great weight and bulk. Such was the price he had to pay for all his improved tech and weaponry. After all, his new life required constant preparation against those who would hinder or harm him. The requirement for such weight demanded a body that could take it, shoulder, and command it.

He stepped from his newly unlocked boots, revealing nano-fiber leggings. With little mind to what he did, the rest of his armor came off while he admired the suit under the armor. He remembered thinking it to be a new armor, something to give him life and mobility. Even if it failed to maintain his proper body temperature, it still provided some degree of defense. If anything should compromise the armor, it would act as his last defense.

A defense that did not have to be used. Free from his armor, he carefully removed the top half of the nano-fiber. It clung to him, fighting the pull of his hands all the way. He placed it on the table, examining his body. The life support system was inactive; a measure he did not think would be used to quite some time. A measure that had been used just recently, thanks to the untimely interruption of his work by a small man with a big ego. The vile containing the fluid, similar to liquid nitrogen, was almost empty.

He did not give its removal a second though. His body knew that he would survive, and the system would shut down until it was needed again. The irony of using tech from a fiend like Lex Luthor to help save a life was not entirely lost on him. But he had another matter to attend to: the outside of his body. A small patch of black had appeared along his side. The same thing had happened to his fingertips as well. A form of frostbite he thought. A cure will need to be developed before his becomes a hindrance.

The word ran through his mind. Cure. He had been trying to create a cure throughout the span of his new life, only to fail or be stopped each time. But this time he developed a cure that worked, and for whom? For the clown, of all people, and the bat as well.

With his armor removed, he made his way towards the stations holding pen. After everything had happened, after the interruptions and near-death experience, he had finally been given that which kept him going. The bars had been frozen over, walls of ice all covering them. Still, at the time, he was still dwelling on past events. The cure had saved the bat, something his 'colleagues' would not be happy about should they learn about it, but the clown had succumbed to the disease he wrought upon himself.

The story going around involved the daughter of an immortal and Basil Karlo. Another story floating around was that Hugo Strange had met his end, meaning the end to this prison. It meant no difference to him; they would try and take him back to another cell. Try to fix him, try to make him better. But now, standing before her, he could care less about the outside world. He stretched a hand out; touching the block of ice Strange had placed her frail body in.

Though clouded, he could still make out the perfect features of her face, the beauty of her golden hair, and the paleness of her soft skin. He fell to his knees, a tear travelling down his cheek. Like always, he could not feel it. He imagined a feeling of warmth in his chest, trying to simulate the feelings of his past life while he looked upon her.

"Nora…,' the once emotionless voice now held sorrow and relieve, 'welcome home." His head rested on the block of ice, more tears streaming down his face. Never again, he thought. Never again will they anyone, be it man or the Reaper himself, take you from me. And there he stayed. Memories of her, of his past life, caused tears of relief. But the life he lived now brought anger he hadn't felt in a long time into his heart, knowing that it would always endanger her.

"Rest well, my love. Everything will go back to how it should soon enough."


End file.
